#mute whumpee

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Writing whump means that I need to draw fluff right after. The balance of the universe depends on it.

[whumpberry-cookie]

(Tw: swearing, pet whump)

Whumper got his defiant Whumpee muted, so they can't say anything mean. They can only communicate by pressing given talking buttons.

"You are very well behaved today. You may have back your Bitch Butto-"

"BITCH-BITCH-BI-BI-BI-BITCH! BITCH BITCH BITCH-"

"Well as long as you have fun"

-----------------------------

[whumporama]

A whumpee who won't speak or communicate in any way after their rescue, and Caretaker doesn't know why. A few days/weeks in, and suddenly Whumpee whispers "I'm sorry."

They don't speak or look at Caretaker after that, those two words were all they said. Caretaker is left to try and figure out what is going on in Whumpee's mind.

[the-dump-of-whump]

Mute Whumpee who uses some form of sign language has their hands bound I a way where they can’t properly sign.

Bonus Whumper doesn’t know whumpee is mute or pretends not to and/or doesn’t care.

[secretwhumplair]

Departure

1,424 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Ozriel)

Content | Power imbalance, mute whumpee, language barrier, mention of/implied: past captivity, past torture

Notes | Orafin and Elgar go on their way!

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations

Night had now properly fallen. The crown let them have their hug for a long moment—Elgar could feel their eyes on him like burning fire, and wondered what went through their head, seeing their regal brother so closely entangled with one like him; surely it reflected on them if it were known, somehow? he couldn’t imagine they approved, however affable they had been, but he desperately needed that hug—but eventually, they sat up all businesslike, and that little movement was enough to signal to the prince it was time to stop.

»You should get some rest,« the crown said, gently, when the prince turned back towards them. Their eyes, once again, grazed Elgar as well, as if they meant them both. »But we should lay out some plans. As soon as you feel ready to travel—«

The prince nodded firmly, and looked over at Elgar, who joined in, rather more hesitantly. Yes, no, he was ready to travel. He just wasn’t ready for this whole situation.

»I think the best thing will be to come back to Akreh with me, then Orina and her escort can take you from there. You’ll go to Borrim until you’re fully recovered, then you can return to Atcill. Although…« They sighed. »You should probably appear as soon as possible.«

The prince nodded, his eyes determined. Atcill was the capital of Ochuria, Elgar knew that much—as for Borrim, he could only guess. A sickhouse? Would a royal go to a common sickhouse, moreso if they weren’t physically ill?

The prince had scribbled something down on his slate, and now the crown eyed him with plain worry on their face. »If you’re quite sure.« Then they turned to Elgar. »You will travel to Borrim together, one of our countryside estates—it will be nice and quiet. His Highness has requested you go via our capital, so he may make a public appearance and put the people’s minds at ease about him.«

»Yes, your Majesty.« Elgar idly wondered if the offer to send him back home was permanent, or whether he had missed his chance. Not that it mattered, really. What could he do, anyway?

The crown considered him for a moment, then they nodded briefly and returned to the prince. »We’ll have to find someone to teach you to speak with your hands, of course. All of us, actually, when we have time. Why, of course,« they added with a small smile when the prince looked just about moved enough to start crying, giving him another half-hug. »And you,« they turned to Elgar once more, »will have to learn spoken Ochurian as well, if you intend to stay. It is probably best if you learn to read it, as well,« they added with a glance down at the prince’s slate.

»Yes, your Majesty. I—I would like that.« It was a terrifying prospect, to be stranded in this strange land with no way to communicate.

He wouldn’t be stranded, of course.

He would be at the mercy of the royal family. No one would be able to help him if things went awry.

He had to shove these thoughts down. The prince had promised to protect him. He simply had to cling on to that promise.

Presently, the crown smiled. »Very good. That’s settled, then. If you both are ready, we will travel tomorrow morning. After breakfast, you look-« They fell silent, their eyes filled with worry when they looked over their brother, skin and bones, worse than Elgar. He remembered how light the prince, who in his mind could not have been further from a prince then, had felt in his arms.

The prince swallowed, but smiled, and nodded.

* Orafin woke early, the first light of dawn barely creeping in, yet found Elgar already awake, lying with his open eyes resting on him. Ozriel was already up—they had gone to sleep beside him, but now they were at the desk, writing letters. It felt so warm and safe to see them there, all busy being monarch; although the thought was immediately followed up with the sting of knowing it would never be their mother doing these duties again.

They immediately glanced over to him when he sat up. He shoved the grief aside for the moment—there would be time to grieve, surely; now wasn’t it—, smiled, and waved good morning.

Their smile in return looked strained. »Good morning. One moment.«

Orafin looked over to Elgar while they finished their paperwork. He couldn’t do anything but smile at him and squeeze his hand and he couldn’t wait for him to learn to read, for both of them to learn to speak in and understand signs, and he couldn’t even tell him that.

Elgar smiled and squeezed back, but his smile, too, seemed strained.

Orafin wondered whether he was still in pain, now unhappily looking forward to travelling with it. He had told the medic he was sore, but he hadn’t elaborated—and Orafin hadn’t wanted to expose him—and whether his body had been able to fully recover in the past two days, while dealing with the starvation and the exhaustion and the obvious anxiety, Orafin didn’t know.

It seemed unlikely, after everything Orafin had witnessed. Elgar had never been given time to recover any more than he had, and though his injuries might be subtler, Orafin didn’t doubt they were still there, struggling to heal amid renewed assaults.

It would probably hurt him to ride. But Orafin couldn’t tell him to tell the medic without revealing at least some of what had been done to him to Ozriel or someone else, so he could only hope Elgar would know to speak up if things got too bad.

Orafin would hurt, too. He was bruised all over. But it would be worth it to see his sister, and go home, and see the rest of his family and friends.

Once Ozriel had finished what couldn’t be more than the sentence they had been writing, they called for breakfast. Two days of consistent food hadn’t been enough to take the magic out of it for Orafin. He briefly tried to remember his manners before the crown, like he was supposed to, but Ozriel just shook their head.

»Please just eat. No-one’s here to watch.« They were speaking in Teeradian, and once again included Elgar with a smile.

Maybe, if he stayed with them, he would eventually have to learn courteous manners. Orafin hoped he wouldn’t mind.

Then it was time for Orafin to get used to his legs again.

They felt fragile and weak under him, having been out of use for a week now. Ozriel helped him up and called for one of his attendants to support him on his way to the stables, so that Orafin could pick out a horse.

The soldiers cheered when they saw him, and his lips smiled all by themselves. He even managed a little wave.

Terrav was going with them, and pointed out the horse they had arrived on. By light of day, and with a clear mind, the mare was certainly nothing special; a pack pony probably, black and soft-eyed and small next to the crown’s horse, Maple, who stretched his head out to welcome his master.

Yet Orafin instantly knew he didn’t want to leave her behind. But now that he thought about it-

Elgar should have her. He took her.

The corner of Ozriel’s mouth twitched. »You’re right. This horse is rightfully yours,« they continued towards Elgar. »You took her as your prize. You can keep her, or you can sell her later when we can get you a better ride.«

Elgar simply stared at Ozriel, then at Orafin, who grinned at him, giving him an enthusiastic nod. »The horse… belongs to me?«

»Yes, if you will have her. You should probably name her.«

»Um.« Elgar stepped up to the pony, who was clearly indifferent to all of these humans around her, but accepted an awkward little face rub. »I think I’ll call her. Sparrow?«

He met Orafin’s eyes, and Orafin thought they were both reminded of the night they met the horse.

How Orafin had convinced Elgar to come with him by mimicking the protection of a vulnerable small animal. An injured little bird, perhaps.

Orafin swallowed down the knot in his throat, and nodded earnestly. He didn’t need to be reminded of his promise, and he would make sure his actions would eventually convince Elgar of that.

At sunrise, they left the outpost.

[abhainnwhump]

This is a concept I can't get out of my head and I need to write it down so I don't put it in my draft where it wouldn't fit.

(Content warning: Pet whump, dehumanization, noncon body modification, therapy-can't-help-you-at-this-point Whumper)

Whumper wanted to dehumanize Whumpee as much as possible. They already force them to sleep in a dog bed, make them eat and drink from dog bowls, make them perform tricks, maybe even had them surgically altered, but that still isn't enough for this asshole Whumper.

They make them to only speak in barks/meows, whether by surgery, magic, or plain conditioning. The only way they can "talk" is through tones of voice. Whumper coos over how cute they are when they don't use words and bark when they're happy. Whumpee is so worn out that they just don't care, the praise is good.

After rescue, they need to relearn how to talk with words. Or maybe Caretaker finds a way to communicate through handle signals until/if they get to that point.

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

I think it'd be interesting to have a whumper who loves to hear their whumpees make noise, encounter a traumatic mute.

Like, what to do then? Your toy is broken, but not in the fun way. Sure it looks cute, but dang it, they aren't making the cute sounds!

Does the whumper get rid of them, or do they have to try all new methods to get their whumpee to make noise?

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface.  She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“I am so tired of you talking, always talking. You just don’t shut up. So I’m going to make sure that you’ll never talk again”

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Masterlist : Blood and tears

A half-vampire gets captured by hunters. He can't remember his name, or anything that comes before his capture. The hunters have fun with him.

Please read Everest's introduction before ! I promise the story will make more sense.

Another thing: if you have an idea, a request, a prompt you think could suit, please submit it ! I live for interactions.

The links are in chronological order.

Art:

Cuddles

Hiding

Also cuddles

Fluff

Captivity:

Silver fangs

Alone

No escape

Hungry + art

Unfair

Goodnight

Left behind

Rescue:

Found

Broken

Thankful

Home

Nameless

Named

Still hungry

Wasting away

Revelation

Hope

Good job

Fear

Please

Back

Leaving

Solution

Cold

Goodbye

Mutt + art

Abandoned

Not over

Unexpected

Warm

Safe

Incident

Anguish

Destiny

Examen

Examen II

Apologies

Nightmares

Accident

Fixed

Not canon/AU:

Merciful end

[the-whumpening]

The Caged Tiger | Part 1

Masterpost | Next

CW: captivity, needles, blood, threats of violence and death, restrained, dehumanization

-----------------------------

The oncoming army fades from Ash’s vision, warbling green magic replacing the bright snow all around him. As if attached to a string, he feels himself being pulled—a harmless tug at first, but quickly yanking him off his feet. Within the green mist, a cacophony of voices clamor: it’s as if he’s in the middle of a tunnel, with his friends calling him on one end and confused strangers on the other. But he realizes, with dread, these voices aren’t unknown to him. As he calls out, stretching through the spiraling path before him, the portal slams shut. He tumbles to a hard stone floor, catching himself on his hands and knees.

“Wow,” one familiar voice muses. “I didn’t know it could do that!”

“Indeed,” the other replies.

A slender hand grasps his hair and lifts his head; icy spears of panic pierce his spine. He may not know exactly where he is, but he does know his captor.

Ozmund smirks coolly, a devious glint in his narrowed eyes. “You look quite different, Ash—I almost didn't recognize you.”

-----------------------------

A nagging ache radiates throughout Ash’s body. But it isn’t the soreness that wakes him; rather, it’s the sharp, jabbing pain in his arm. He tries to jerk away from the source as he groggily comes back into consciousness, but his arm refuses to move, as if bound in place.

“You should stop your whinging; it’ll only make this worse,” Ozmund calmly chides, drawing up the plunger of his syringe. The chamber floods with blood, and Ash’s stomach churns at the sight. He turns his head, a cold sweat forming on his brow. As he wriggles, the cold metal around his neck presses into his skin; the attached chain clangs against itself.

What–? Is this . . . a collar?

Flashes of memory return through the queasy haze: a fight with Owen, frantic and feral, each exchanging hit after heavy hit; then a puff of sweet-smelling perfume, and the room swirling as he crashed to the floor. In the dreamlike stupor, he could feel his bare back against the stone wall and the stretch of his arms above his head.

Finally fully awake, fear and rage take the place of his confusion. He tries to calm his panic; he’s not sure if Ozmund knows about his new form, but he doubts anything good could come of him finding out. Stay calm, stay alert. He repeats Kane’s words to himself like a mantra. Use your head.

With as little movement as possible, he takes in his surroundings. The room is cold and sterile—nearly every surface is made of stone or metal. Clean, glass-framed cabinets hold an array of tools he can only guess at the purpose of. Aside from his stable-like holding cell, the rest of the space seems to be set up as a laboratory. What exactly does he do here? His muscles shake against his will—both from the fatigue and terror wracking his body as well as his desperate clinging to his human state.

“Oh, please. A beast, afraid of the sight of blood?” Ozmund scoffs. He withdraws the syringe, pressing a cloth against the wound. A shimmer of green passes through Ash’s veins, and the puncture disappears as Ozmund removes the cloth. Did he just . . . heal me?

Ash tries to speak, but terror has gripped his throat in a tight embrace. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

Ozmund ignores his panicked squeaks. He deposits the contents of the syringe into a vial, then cleans his hands and drops his equipment on a nearby tray, all the while leaving his back turned towards Ash. Taking advantage of the moment out of his line of sight, Ash pulls uselessly against the restraints. They don’t budge; he realizes that not even his legs are entirely free. He wonders if his bindings are reinforced with magic—even his immense strength proves futile against them. Though he tries to subdue his terror, barely-audible keening cries slip out from his quick, panicked breaths.

With an exasperated sigh, Ozmund turns on his heel. He stalks closer to Ash, each sharp tap of his boots against the hard floor echoing in Ash’s ears. His voice low and ominous, he slams a hand on the wall beside Ash’s head and leans in. “You will cease that pathetic mewling.” For a reason Ash can’t begin to fathom, his expression almost . . . softens. “Don’t fret. I have no intention to kill you anytime soon. I want so much more from you than you can give, I assure you.

"After stealing away my apprentice and ruining all my plans, well, the first thing on my mind is—of course—revenge.” A devilish grin creeps across his face, and he drags a long, manicured nail down Ash’s cheek. “But," he continues, "I have something more practical planned. Such a unique specimen like this, delivered so unexpectedly on my doorstep? I'd be a fool to pass up the chance; I've had my eye on studying you for quite some time. It's funny—I've heard you were trying to become a scholar yourself. Is that right? The little kitten playing Wizard with Nekane's washed-up uncle!"

From within his overcoat, Ozmund reveals Ash’s spellbook. "You won't have any need for this now." Emerald flames erupt from his hand and engulf the book; within seconds, all of Ash’s hard work—the undeniable proof of his intelligence—is reduced to a pile of soot on the ground. Ozmund dusts off his hands and lifts Ash’s head up by the chain. "Follow my orders and serve me well, and you might live long enough to see your friends' inevitable rescue mission. Test my patience, however, and I'll send you back to them—Piece. By. Piece."

A shudder ripples up Ash’s spine, and he fights to keep his expression stone still. As much as his feral side wants to fight back—to lash out at Ozmund, rend flesh from bone, and destroy everything in his path to return to his friends—he knows he can't risk it. Ozmund is far more powerful than he can even imagine, and far less predictable. He can’t seem to anticipate any of Ozmund’s actions; every shift in his demeanor is frightening and unexpected. For once, Ash genuinely fears for his life.

"I can't say I'm not a little disappointed," Ozmund says. "Where's your fight, cat?"

Ash remains silent, dropping his gaze to the floor and turning his head away in shame. He wonders the same; he’s never let fear grab him so fiercely before, but now . . . he can’t help but be paralyzed. Since when has practicality and personal safety mattered to him in the face of danger? Why do I feel so helpless?

"Well, no matter."

He tenses, trying not to flinch, as Ozmund snaps his fingers. The shackles around Ash’s limbs fall away, leaving behind sore impressions in his wrists and a weakness in his knees. What kind of trick is this? What's going on?

"We'll coax that rage out of you soon enough." With a tug of the leash-like chain, Ozmund pulls Ash along behind him.

[painsandconfusion]

You have a mute whumpee?? I've never seen that before

I think it's just that one scene I have them in and Whumper makes an ablest comment about it, so it's not exactly my favorite rep for diversity among my characters. In the other scenes, you don't even know they're mute. Doesn't happen to come up.

Their name is Gigi, by the way. Darling bean. I never had a harder time writing anything in my entire life as I did in killing them in that scene.

[aswallowimprisoned]

Custom sign language made by whumpee and caretaker to communicate that accommodates limited mobility 🤩

Custom sign language made by medical whumper so that whumpee can continue to communicate the affects of drugs 🤤

Custom sign language to non verbal living weapon to cut off all other forms of communication to other people, be it speakers or other sign language users eg 🤯

Mute Whumpee who uses some form of sign language has their hands bound I a way where they can’t properly sign.

Bonus Whumper doesn’t know whumpee is mute or pretends not to and/or doesn’t care.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

I'm a writing blog, not an art blog, I'm a writing blog, not an art blog...

Anyway, look at my baby !

[whatiswhump]

In captivity each day whumpee grows more distant. They speak less and less and it is increasingly more difficult for whumper to get their vacant attention.

Eventually they stop speaking completely and the whumper can no longer reach them at all.

It’s infuriating, this adrift catatonia, and whumper is determined to get them back no matter what it takes.